


The Eye Is the Window to My Heart

by suckyatmaps



Series: A Momentary Lapse in Seasons [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Autumn, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Present Tense, long walks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 11:44:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18072800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suckyatmaps/pseuds/suckyatmaps
Summary: John and Sherlock take a walk around London and go sightseeing up the London Eye. Fluff ensues.Standalone.





	The Eye Is the Window to My Heart

John glares at the skull. The skull glares back, unamused. 

"How can a bloody  _ skull _ keep someone company?"

Sighing, he returns to his book, turning the pages but not absorbing anything. His thoughts keep drifting back to Sherlock, out sketching somewhere. 

He's been doing that a lot, lately, in this fleeting lull between cases. A pang of loneliness shivers up his spine and curls around his chest, his novel momentarily forgotten. The absence of Sherlock’s tall, brooding figure leaves an uneasy emptiness in his heart, a void where life once was. He gets up from his chair, puts on the kettle as he walks around the kitchen, stacking dishes and straightening silverware. Sherlock’s not the only one who needs distractions. Routine cleaning; completely fruitless. He’ll just mess it up when he returns, why bother? Still, there has to be some kind of neatness for him to destroy. 

And so, he bothers. Bothers to sort the books scattered about: under the sofa, on the table, in the laundry hamper. There’s even one in his own dresser. He’s just finished placing the last book back on the shelf when the door flies open, Sherlock sweeping in with a swirl of dramatic flair and coat. His hands are stained with ink, the side of his palm almost entirely black. 

"Mind if I look?" he asks, waving at the notebook.

“John, you’ve asked that twenty-six – twenty-seven, now – times in the last month and not once have I agreed. Must I keep repeating myself? No, you may not look.”

John almost stifles his urge to roll his eyes, thinks better of it. Sherlock doesn’t notice, he’s too busy casting discarded sheets into the fire. He’s more agitated than yesterday, rejects more today. 

“Problem?” 

“It doesn’t look right. It hasn’t looked right for the past week. This one location, just this one, does not, will not, translate to my pen. Why? Surely my skill hasn’t fallen so far that I can’t – it’s all observation, anyway, placing reality into abstract lines. And no, you still may not look. But. You could come with me, perhaps. Tell me what I’m doing wrong. Not that you’d know, of course, but it would be...nice.” Sherlock’s icy eyes find his for a split second, and John thinks he sees a flash of hope within them. It’s gone in an instant, replaced by the cold, calculating look he knows so well. 

“Yeah? Course I’ll go. I would like some tea first, though.”

* * *

Sherlock paces across the Golden Jubilee Bridges, walking up, down, over again, charcoal moving incessantly over the page. After the fourth crossing, John gives up and picks a spot in the middle, watches the riverboats pass by underneath. He pulls out his own pad of paper, jotting down a few lines, erases them. Grumbles in frustration and puts it away again. The London Eye turns lazily, reflecting the evening glow as it rotates, burdened with tourists. 

“We should try that,” says Sherlock, appearing behind him. John flinches at his intrusion, then looks over.

“The Eye? I mean, it’s a tourist trap, but it’s a fairly decent one.” 

“I’ve never been. It makes an excellent subject, though.”

As they make their way over to Southbank, John quickens his steps and reaches for Sherlock’s arm in an attempt to slow him down. He doesn’t. John keeps his grip, not wanting to lose him among the throngs of pedestrians. It takes a few more metres before he realises that he’s walking arm in arm with his sociopathic flatmate; also realises that he doesn’t want to let go. Sherlock doesn’t seem to mind, even pulls him closer. 

“I suppose the one tolerable aspect about the living is that they’re warm,” he says, so softly that John almost doesn’t catch him.

“What glowing praise,” he replies, laughing quietly. “Go on, then, what’s something intolerable about that couple?”

“He’s an insatiable Instagram addict – you can tell by the way his eyes search for the next photo, his hands constantly fidgeting with his phone. So inattentive, he’s already missed thirty-eight chances. She’s a banker, obviously. Ergo: bastard.”

“You amaze me, Sherlock. Always,” John whispers, looks up and smiles at him. He turns his head almost imperceptibly, offers John a quirk of his lips. The praise never gets old. 

They stand underneath the Ferris wheel, gazing at the city before them, its lights twinkling and its inhabitants passing through. The rush of life is subdued now, people anticipating a cup of tea and warm beds. Here, at this singular point, time slows, dilating, a second stretching into eternity. They’re silent, for they don’t need words to speak. They’re strangers to everyone else but themselves; the world keeps revolving around them as they stand, but they don’t care. This is the only moment that matters. 

And now, this one. 

Now, this. 

They climb the steps leading up to the platform of the Eye. John’s hand slides down Sherlock’s arm, entwines their fingers together. Sherlock squeezes back as they enter a pod, and he has to bow down to get through the door. It shuts behind them with a thud, sealing them in.

“There’s no one else here, how?” asks John, though he can guess the answer.

“Infuriating as he is, having Mycroft as a brother does have its advantages,” Sherlock says. The sodium lights of the city glitter, the only constellations that can be seen, split up by the Thames slicing through. In the distance, the Shard glows like a beacon among a forest of skyscrapers. All is still, save for their breath. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” John murmurs.

“Yes, it is,” he says, gazing at him. John’s brow crinkles before softening again. 

“I knew you’d figure it out eventually.” He ducks his head towards John and places his hand on the small of his back, lightly twisting his cable-knit jumper as he closes the distance. Presses his lips against John’s, gently, almost timid. John tangles his fingers into Sherlock’s hair and pulls him closer, his eyes falling shut as a smile spreads across his face. Sherlock’s magnificently warm despite the autumn chill, his lips soft and caressing. 

He pulls John onto the central bench, snaking an arm around his waist. John leans his head against his chest, the steady beat of Sherlock’s heart filling his ears; closes his eyes and listens for a while. Breathes in the scent of his cologne, lemon and bergamot, a hint of chemicals peeking through underneath. There, they stay, rocked by the movements of the Eye as it inches up, pausing at its peak. Then descends, pedestrians coming back into focus. 

Night has fallen by the time they exit the capsule. London is aglow, street lamps lit and light pouring out of windows. Pubs are open, spilling their warmth onto the sidewalks and tempting all passerby with an aroma of comfort. Nearby trees uphold laden boughs, overhanging the river with amber leaves, blue fairy lights slithering across the branches. They walk together down the boulevard, John clutching Sherlock’s hand, long fingers laced with his own. A gust of wind blusters through, disturbing the detritus of everyday rubbish. He involuntarily tugs Sherlock closer in an attempt to ward off the cold, trying to syphon his body heat. In one deft motion, Sherlock removes his scarf and loops it around him, secures it. 

“Thanks,” he says, burrowing deeper into the soft cashmere. 

“You needed it.”

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?” 

“I...I won’t have to be alone, anymore.”

“No. No, not ever.”


End file.
